


Sporting Wood

by Chantress



Series: And Yet Here We Are [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Apparently Jaskier is the Designated Lube-Getter of the relationship, Bespoke Sex Toys, Her sweet kiss isn't the only thing Yennefer can destroy you with, Lots of innuendo but no actual sex, Multi, POV Outsider, Sex Shop, This is probably the closest this OT3 gets to curtain fic, Timeline What Timeline, Toss a Coin to Your Fucksmith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress
Summary: Just howdidYennefer acquire that impressive strap-on, anyway?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: And Yet Here We Are [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614133
Comments: 22
Kudos: 298





	Sporting Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to ["Weak My Love, And Wanting"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22403110), but can probably stand on its own.

I'm used to a certain amount of nervousness from the people who come into my shop. Blushing young women towing their equally scarlet lovers along in their wake. Men who mutter that they're "just looking," but eye the items on display with a keen, furtive hunger that means they'll definitely be making a purchase... even if it takes them a few more visits to realize that themselves. Nobles who come in to order a custom piece, but who have to be gently coaxed and drawn out all the same because they're not _quite_ sure what they want.  
  
This sorceress, however, strides in like she owns the place, and slaps a stack of papers down on the counter almost before the bell on the door has stopped tinkling.  
  
"I hear you do bespoke work," she says, with no further introduction. "That you're the best. Prove it."  
  
I raise an eyebrow, but flip through the plans. My other eyebrow soon joins its mate in climbing towards my hairline. "This..." I clear my throat. "This won't be cheap."  
  
"Money's no object."  
  
I eye her. The dress she's wearing corroborates her statement, at least; it probably cost enough to feed a small village for a month.  
  
I name a price, and she agrees, handing over half of it up front without the whining or dickering I usually get from the well-to-do. (Not that I can imagine she's ever whined or dickered about anything in her life.) But...  
  
"The dimensions you specify here," I say, tapping a finger on the top sheet of paper. "They're rather... ambitious, wouldn't you say?"  
  
Her immaculately painted lips curve into a smile, slow and predatory. "For the use I have in mind," she purrs, "they're really rather _modest_."  
  
I swallow dryly, unsure whether to envy or pray for whatever poor soul will be the recipient of her attentions.  
  
"Two weeks," I say finally, once I can be sure it won't come out as a squeak. I'm already running calculations in my head, considering the advantages of various varieties of wood for this job.  
  
She frowns. "That long? We'd hoped to move on by the end of the week."  
  
"That long," I say, not budging an inch. "Factoring in my other commissions, the carving time for this project, the enchantment--which will need to be sung in throughout the entire process to get the level of sensitivity you've asked for, by the way-- _and_ crafting the harness, two weeks is the absolute minimum."  
  
She inclines her head, smirking a little. "Well, I suppose I can find a way to keep my companions out of trouble for that long _somehow_. Keep me apprised if you run into any difficulty."  
  
She strides back to the door, but then pauses and turns towards me again, a considering light in her amethyst eyes.  
  
"Dryad blood?" she asks.  
  
I shrug. "Yes, at least according to family legend; it'd be pretty far back, if it's even true." I spread my hands to indicate the contents of my shop, a self-deprecating smile tugging at my lips. "But then again, I _am_ rather good with wood."  
  
She returns the smile; it's warmer than any of her previous expressions, more honest somehow, and I could swear I still feel a glow from it deep in my belly long after she's gone.  
  
***  
  
When she returns to collect her commission in two weeks' time, she has two men with her. I've already figured out who they are, of course; everyone's heard the stories and songs about this trio (most of which were likely composed by one of its members). I feign nonchalance as I settle up with the sorceress, explaining the care and maintenance of her new accoutrement, but internally I'm a nervous wreck. Of all the potential customers on the Continent, it just _had_ to be them, didn't it. I may need to close up early after this and fortify myself with a drink. Or five.  
  
The taller of the two men grunts as the sorceress hands over the second half of her payment. "Expensive," he rumbles, eyeing me with marked suspicion.  
  
The other man nudges him. " _Manners_ , Geralt!" he exclaims with a shocked huff. "Yen said this lovely lady is simply the best craftsperson there is in this particular... field. Stands to reason her talents would command a similarly impressive price."  
  
Another grunt. "It's still fucking expensive."  
  
The sorceress flashes him a flirtatious look. "Are you implying you aren't worth it?" she coos.  
  
He grunts again, but stops glowering (at least in my direction; it seems to be his default expression).  
  
I don't comment on this exchange, but I do raise an eyebrow internally. _Well, at least now I know who'll be on the receiving end of my newest creation_ , I think, a little hysterically.  
  
They leave the shop soon after, although not before the smaller man has picked out and paid for a truly impressive selection of flavored lubricants and massage oils. ("I'll write a song in your honor, my lady," he promises, winking and kissing my hand as I pass him the ribbon-tied bag of vials.) I see them to the door, babbling something inane about how I hope they'll enjoy their purchase, but thankfully none of them seem to be paying me the slightest mind anymore.  
  
"I still don't see how this is a 'necessity,' Yen," I hear the tall man grumble as they walk away.  
  
The sorceress laughs, true amusement in the sound. "Oh, you'll like this new cock even better than the old one, Geralt, I promise," she says, looping her arm through his. "It _is_ modeled on yours, after all."  
  
I shut the door behind them, slide the bolt home, and lean on it for a long moment, before slowly sliding down it and onto the floor in a fit of helpless, half-panicked giggles.  
  
Even if my professional ethics didn't prevent me from sharing this story, I think, I'd never be able to tell anyone, because _they wouldn't fucking believe me._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sporting Wood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548192) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)




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